


It Won't Be Long (Til I Belong to You)

by inoubliable



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Bottom Derek, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Military, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Werewolf Discrimination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoubliable/pseuds/inoubliable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where werewolves are in the military, and so is Stiles Stilinski. There's only one little problem: Sergeant Major Derek Hale.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>The first time they did this, Stiles was in the infirmary for three days. Concussion, bruising, about every sprain you can think of. He remembers lying in that stiff hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, plotting his revenge. It had taken him two weeks to walk right, and his anger had been stoked with every aching step. No one ever accused him of learning his lesson, and Hale didn't feel like a lesson at all. He felt like a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Won't Be Long (Til I Belong to You)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from It Won't Be Long by the Beatles.

They're not supposed to be doing this.

There are a million rules against it. McCall cleaned toilets for a week (with a _toothbrush_ ) the one time he brushed his shoulder into Argent's, just hard enough to knock her off-balance. Allison could have kicked his ass, everyone knows it, but women are fragile. _Humans_ are fragile. It's just one of the injustices everyone's had to deal with since the President signed the bill into law.

Werewolves in the military. Who would have ever thought?

But the point stands. They're not supposed to be doing this.

Problem is, Stiles isn't a very good listener.

And Hale.

Hale isn't good at staying away from Stiles.

\--

Stiles wonders, sometimes, what it would be like to be a fanged, clawed, genetically hardwired weapon of mass destruction. Thinks, if just for a moment, that being in such close quarters with them is a capital-B Bad Idea. One of the weres will flash their eyes or bare their teeth, and he'll have a heart-stopping moment of _wrongwrongwrong_.

It's instinctive. It's fight or flight. Predator against prey (and Stiles is very aware which one he is).

It's also discrimination, and he'd lose his rank if anyone ever found out.

Stiles isn't a racist. He's not. But he's not in the majority. The weres were still uncharted territory when he enlisted, and since then, Stiles has seen true hate. Exhibit A: the Hale fire. No one has forgotten about it. There are about a thousand laws and clauses to make sure no one ever will.

But there's a more vivid reminder than the legal stuff. A tall, dark, terrifyingly handsome reminder named Derek Hale.

No one calls him that, though. It's usually 'Sergeant'.

A werewolf, serving as Sergeant Major of the Marine Corps. His family would probably be proud, if they weren't all dead.

For all the uproar about werewolves, no one can say Hale doesn't do his job, and do it well. He's a hardass to the extreme. Most of the privates are terrified of him. Hell, Stiles is a Corporal -- it's such a fresh promotion that it still makes him smile to say -- and even he's a little afraid of Hale.

Mostly because he knows exactly what those fists and fingers and fangs can do.

Fighting between humans and weres is strictly prohibited. That's it, the end. They don't even come into contact during special training. It's all instructional videos on the anatomy of the wolf, highlighting the weak spots and the danger zones. It's funny -- they're trying so hard to promote equality, and yet Stiles barely sees any wolves outside of the films.

McCall is an exception. No one is scared of McCall.

Hale doesn't count, either. Hale's job is to keep the ranks under control -- whether they're human or not. It's something he's good at. Even the most anti-were can find something to admire in Hale. He's admittedly impressive.

Privately, Stiles finds it all hilarious. Seriously, the idea of Hale punishing the rule-breakers is laughable, especially when Stiles has Hale pinned, just like in the videos, his thumb dug deep into a spot that makes Hale give a sound like a wounded dog. Stiles has about a thousand kicked puppy references to make, but they're all lost on a yelp when Hale kicks his knee up, jams it hard into Stiles' ribs. Something gives, and Stiles goes rolling. Hale follows. Suddenly, Stiles' vision is filled with too-sharp teeth and eyes so red it's hard to look straight into them.

For once, Stiles doesn't feel like prey. Stiles feels his ribs ache, his wrist twist, his heart pound.

Stiles feels alive.

\--

Once Hale takes the upper hand, he keeps it, and that frustrates Stiles to no end.

He hits harder, ducks lower, but Hale is preternaturally fast and strong and he's been doing this for a long time -- well, not _this_ , maybe. Stiles thinks he's probably the only one Hale has ever done this with. He doesn't have proof, and God forbid he ask, but sometimes Hale hesitates like he's not sure how to start. Stiles doesn't mind; he'll take all the advantage he can get.

Still, he ends up with a split lip and severely damaged pride, on his back with a werewolf's teeth bared dangerously close to his racing pulse. Hale could go in for the kill, could rip his throat right out, but he leans away instead.

"Infirmary," Hale says, climbing gracefully to his feet. It doesn't even look like Stiles has touched him. "Now."

"Like _hell_ -" Stiles spits. It's garbled through a mouthful of blood and talking _hurts_ , but it's no worse than the ache of beat up ribs when he rolls onto his feet, charges Hale with no finesse. It's no surprise when Hale sidesteps, twists his arm behind his back, pinning him to a hard, heaving chest. No human has ever won a fair fight with a were. Humans use maneuvers, use their brains.

Problem is, it's hard for Stiles to think around Hale.

"That was an order," Hale says, so low in his ear that the hair on Stiles' neck stands at attention. It sounds like a threat, except Hale is pushing him away, watching him with eyes still vaguely red. "I don't think your record can take another insubordination report."

And Stiles hates him, _hates_ him, because it always comes down to this. Stiles always ends up saluting with a sore wrist, limping away, hurt, the sharp tang of blood in his mouth. Hates him _more_ , because when Stiles looks back -- he always looks back -- Hale doesn't look very victorious. Stiles thinks he could handle smugness. Thinks he'd appreciate it if, for once, Hale claimed the win.

He doesn't know what it means that Hale always just looks lost.

\--

Everyone in the infirmary knows his face. They know his insides even better, because they always x-ray even when he insists he's _fine_.

Turns out, this time he's not. His rib is bruised and his lip needs stitches -- he nearly bit straight through it. Deaton takes his time threading the needle, probably enjoying the silence. He doesn't get much of it, not when Stiles is around.

"I've never seen anyone get hurt as much as you," he says absently, focusing on his work. Stiles stiffens. Someone asking questions could be bad for him. Could be worse for Hale. (He doesn't know which one upsets him more, and that's probably a problem.)

"'m not-" he tries. Deaton pinches his lip so hard he feels it, even though it's been numbed.

"Being accident-prone is not a crime." He doesn't say 'end of discussion', but his tone does.

Stiles doesn't know why Deaton is giving him an excuse, and maybe it shows on his face, because Deaton smiles.

"I would hate to lose my best patient," he says. He doesn't say anything else for a minute, so long that Stiles thinks that's it. He's snipping the string of the stitches when he finally continues. "Besides, I've always been fascinated by werewolves. It's interesting to see their attacks when they're trying not to kill."

Stiles' mouth drops open further, and Deaton smiles again as he stands. "Have a good night, Corporal. And be safe."

It hurts too much to try and argue, and besides, Deaton's not listening anymore anyway.

\--

"Desk duty," Hale says. "One week."

It's the first time Stiles has seen him in three days. His lip is healing okay as long as he doesn't talk too much (so, basically, it hasn't healed at all) and his ribs still hurt like a bitch. They throb at the sight of the Sergeant, but Stiles thinks he's up for another round, especially considering what Hale is saying.

Hale holds up a hand before Stiles can jar his stitches enough to argue. "And remember what I said about insubordination, Stilinski."

Stiles' anger is hot, hateful. He wants to get Hale on his back, vulnerable, wants his teeth at Hale's throat. Stiles remembers what the Sergeant's felt like, hot breath on racing pulse, and he wants Hale to feel the humiliation, the sick scary reality of not being enough, of not moving fast enough or trying hard enough. Wants to watch the predator become prey. _His_ prey.

He wants to fuck Hale over, fuck him up.

"Yes, sir," he grits out, and manages a salute.

His ribs hurt worse than ever, watching Hale walk away without the slightest hitch in his stride.

\--

Stiles' stitches aren't even out before it happen again.

His chest is heaving and he's slick with sweat. So is Hale; Stiles' hands slip-slide when they push at Hale's wrist, avoiding one of his tricky maneuvers with a quick sidestep. He's fast, but not werewolf fast. Still, he's able to dance out of Hale's reach.

Hale is going easy on him, the bastard. Stiles bares his teeth and charges.

Hale has to expect it -- Hale expects _everything_ \-- but they fall to the ground like he doesn't. Stiles uses the momentum, picks up Hale's slack. His hand slaps the mat beside Hale's head, keeps himself balanced so he can use his legs, knees on either side of Hale's hips to keep him trapped in place, digging in deep. Hale could buck him, but he doesn't. It makes Stiles angry. He's making this so _easy_ , and Hale's not taking the bait.

"Fight me," he hisses, right in Hale's face. He's so furious he spits a little, but Hale has had his bloodsweattears on him. Hale doesn't even flinch.

It's jarring, to so suddenly be on his back. Hale moves between one heartbeat and the next, so fast it's scary. Stiles' breath shutters out of his chest, his heart pounding doubletime.

But Hale isn't _fighting_. The first time they did this, Stiles was in the infirmary for three days. Concussion, bruising, about every sprain you can think of. He remembers lying in that stiff hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, plotting his revenge. It had taken him two weeks to walk right, and his anger had been stoked with every aching step. No one ever accused him of learning his lesson, and Hale didn't feel like a lesson at all. He felt like a challenge.

It occurs to him then that he's never been afraid of Derek Hale, not really. Frightened of the Sergeant, maybe. Frightened of paperwork and reports and desk duty. But not afraid of the man behind it all.

"Fight me," he says again, but the heat is gone. Well, no, that's not true. It's a different kind of heat. Stiles feels as breathless as if they were still sparring.

Derek's grip tightens. There will be bruises. Stiles tries to remember the last time he didn't have Derek's fingertips marked into his skin.

And then he's released, left panting and alone, on his back under harsh fluorescent lighting. Derek makes no sound as he leaves, but the racket of Stiles' heart probably follows him halfway across base.

\--

He doesn't shower when he finally drags himself off the floor and limps to his room. He flings himself, exhausted, across his bed, face-down. He has just finished being grateful for his promotion (and, subsequently, his right to a private room) when the door opens.

McCall is the only person Stiles won't report for intruding. He's simultaneously one of the last people Stiles wants to see.

"I've been looking for you," McCall says, then stops. Stiles buries his face in the pillow, listening to McCall's sharp inhale. He doesn't want to watch McCall crinkle his nose, doesn't want to see the pieces click into place. To his credit, McCall gives Stiles a long time to pretend they both can ignore it. And then, finally -- "Why do you smell like Hale?"

The sound of Derek's name makes something in Stiles shiver, something dark and angry. Something vengeful and terrifying. At the same time, it makes him weak. Tired. Stiles could drag himself out of bed and into the shower, could use the special soap that allows the weres to pretend he hasn't had his hand around his dick or whatever other offensive smell it is that he usually emits. But he doesn't want to. He wants to lie here and sulk. Wants to breathe in the smell of Derek's sweat and close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to win, just once. To have Hale on his back, and to keep him there. To make him ask for mercy, to make him _beg_ for it--

"You know what, dude? I'm gonna go." Stiles still hasn't looked at him, but McCall sounds shifty, like he's nervous. Like he's uncomfortable. It reminds Stiles of the time McCall walked in on him getting off with a muted porno and his right hand. McCall had said the same thing then. 'You know what, dude? I'm gonna go.'

He wonders what McCall is smelling now. Underneath the stench of Derek, that is. Wonders if he's smelling the anger. The stinking hate. The arous-

Stiles' eyes fly open.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh, he is _fucked_.

\--

Stiles' epiphany is followed by a suspicious lack of Derek.

Seriously, it's weird how efficiently the man manages to disappear. Stiles knows he still has to be around. The privates are too well-behaved for him to have taken a sudden vacation, and besides, Derek Hale is not a man to leave a job unfinished. To leave a job, period. The guy is a workaholic to the max.

It's only a matter of time until Derek seeks him out. Stiles is the biggest piece of work the man has ever known. Derek said so himself.

The thing is, Stiles doesn't want to do this on Derek-time. By the time, Derek is ready to face him, he'll have sorted out his strategy. Stiles doesn't want calm, cool and collected. He wants chaos and confusion and the sweet, sweet victory of a Derek with no escape plan. He wants Derek to fight his way out of the fray, because this time, Stiles is ready for it. This time, Stiles is going to win. And, oh, it's going to be so very good.

Derek Hale has won the battle. Okay, fine, he's won several. But Stiles Stilinski has no intentions of losing the war.

\--

There's a hotel in the nearby town that was built in the late '60s by a pack of weres, back when everyone drank the Kool Aid and couldn't tell a fully shifted werewolf from their next door neighbor Jim. It's nothing special, the smallest of three average-sized hotels in the area, but it's popular for one reason in particular-- the rooms are all soundproof. Sensitive werewolf hearing, and all that. Stiles doesn't have to be a were to take advantage.

He books a room for two nights and smiles non-stop for two days.

\--

The morning before his weekend off begins, he finds a thirty-something page report centered neatly on his pillow. Inside, it defines 'fraternization' and details the consequences. There's a special section regarding relationships between different ranks, underlined and bolded.

Stiles reads enough to understand neither of them will be discharged and proceeds to throw it out. On the mess of Derek's desk, he leaves a hotel key card and no note. The room number is printed into the back of the plastic, and Derek is a smart guy. He'll figure it out.

Stiles returns to his room that night and finds it undisturbed. No thick manuscripts on his pillow, no insubordination report on his desk. No key card in sight.

He nearly can't sleep, but he knows he has to. He has to be focused. Tomorrow is a big day.

\--

Stiles waits to shower until he's safely ensconced in the hotel room, off-base and uninterrupted. After, he stands in front of the mirror, but finds himself unable to face his reflection for too long. The manic look in his eyes makes him giddy, makes him unfocused. It's the kind of look he's going to put on Derek's face, later. He has to be careful not to think too much about it. There's nothing more distracting than the idea of Derek Hale, defeated.

\--

The knock on his door is both expected and so, so surprising. Stiles half-expects housekeeping. But, no.

Derek Hale out of uniform is a sight to behold.

\--

Derek Hale naked is almost too much for him to take.

\--

Derek treats sex like he treats their fights. He doesn't pull his punches, and he fights like it's his last. Stiles barely has the chance to appreciate the way he twists out of his clothes before he's squaring up.

"Come on," Derek says, right up against his ear. He's got Stiles yanked against him, back to chest. Stiles hates how familiar this feels. "Come on, you wanted a fight. Fight me."

His anger tastes like blood, hot and metal in his throat. He hates Derek. Hates the way Derek pins him so easily, matches his every move. Hates the taunt in Derek's voice. Hates how none of this is going according to plan.

But the sound Derek makes when he juts back, rubs into that hard, uncharted place between Derek's legs-- he doesn't hate that.

He's not proud of it, using Derek's dick against him. It's a low blow. But there's only one way this is going to end, and it's not with him catting up against Derek, pushing back on the thick length of it. They'll get there. Stiles has plans for that dick. But not tonight.

Tonight, it's going to be Derek flat on his back, vulnerable and conquered. And for once, it's going to be Stiles Stilinski, on top of him, balls-deep, victorious.

\--

"Fucking _dirty_ -" Derek growls. Stiles is two fingers in and he has them twisted just right. All it takes when Derek starts to struggle is a quick hitch and he's done, gasping, clutching Stiles closer instead of fighting him away.

Stiles kisses him, open-mouthed, lewdly. It's not the first of the night, but it is perhaps the least violent. Derek opens right up for it, mouth as easy as the hole Stiles is fingering open. "You haven't seen anything yet, Sarge."

\--

Stiles fucks him in short, aborted thrusts, the kind of jab _pause_ jab rhythm he learned from their fights. Derek goes crazy for it, legs on Stiles' shoulders, claws in the mattress. Stiles takes him by the shoulders and _fucks_ \-- there's a year and a million losses to make up for, and Stiles is going to make it right, one grunt at a time.

It's not nice. Stiles doesn't kiss him or anything-- but that's mostly because it'd be a damn shame to interrupt the look on his face, that hazy hectic mess of disbelief and pleasure and defeat.

"I'm gonna come," Derek says, just a breath of sound. "I'm gonna come."

_This_ , Stiles thinks, taking hold of Derek's cock and basking in his sharp inhale, the flex of his hips as he comes. _This is what winning feels like._

And, God, Stiles loves to win.

\--

They're not supposed to be doing this.

It's an idle thought Stiles has, after, lying beside Derek. They're not quite touching, but Stiles thinks he'll change that soon. Thinks he'll roll over and climb on top and let himself take. Let his hands guide the way -- they're already so experienced with that hard, honed body. His mouth will follow, and he'll feel the soft sting of his abused stitches dragging along all that skin and know, for the first time, that he has done to Derek what Derek always does to him.

So, yeah. They're not supposed to be doing this.

But Hale isn't good at staying away from Stiles.

And Stiles.

Stiles just doesn't want to stay away from Hale.

**Author's Note:**

> I know next to nothing about the military. It probably shows. Attribute any mistakes to the magic of a world where werewolves are not only known but are allowed in our armed forces.


End file.
